


Nutters

by this_kills_the_man



Series: *to the tune of rick astley* never gonna fiiiiniiiish theeeesssseeee [4]
Category: Don't Hug Me I'm Scared (Short Film)
Genre: Alternate Origin Story, Censorship, Deconstruction of Canon Elements, Educational System, F/M, Gen, Indirect Discussion of Canon, Mental Institutions, Psychology, deconstruction of fanon, just imagine mental institute au but then BAM theyre canon forms, not that there is one really
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-08
Updated: 2014-07-08
Packaged: 2018-02-07 23:53:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1918896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/this_kills_the_man/pseuds/this_kills_the_man
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“They think we’re crazy, the lot of us. Almost as if we are the nutters, and not them! Though, to be frank, even the chaps round up here with us aren’t right in the head. Because, you see, they are not creative. Not them, nor any other person on this spinning piece of rock we call a planet. That is what makes us different from the rest of the world, Tony! If you say the future doesn’t exist, then why do they waltz around as though it does? There’s yet to be a picture painted, and I think it’s right for us to be the ones to do so. Together.”</p><p>"What nonsense is this? Pass the ketchup, would you?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nutters

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [What you taught them...](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/60078) by modmad. 



> The fandom of Don't Hug Me I'm Scared seems to be loosely separated into two groups - one that enjoys the humanized, murder-crazy Tony and Paige and those who enjoy the characters in their canon forms (a clock and notepad, respectively). The ways they are represented in each group are further divided to the point where they've become separate sets of characters entirely, and I think some of the beauty in having those human caricatures is to bring to life a more unsettling image of what the film itself expresses (rather than LETS KILL EVERYTHING). Did the two really just want to torture the puppet trio in sing-songy fashion, or were they even affiliated with the violence in the first place? This work is heavily inspired by a beautiful comic created by modmad, and I recommend you read it before checking out this fic.
> 
> Now, sit back, relax, and enjoy. Um, please. I beg of you.

“They think we’re crazy, the lot of us. Almost as if  we are the nutters, and not them! Though, to be frank, even the chaps round up here with us aren’t right in the head. Because, you see, they are not  creative . Not them, nor any other person on this spinning piece of rock we call a planet. That is what makes us different from the rest of the world, Tony! If you say the future doesn’t exist, then why do  they waltz around as though it does? There’s yet to be a picture painted, and I think it’s right for  us to be the ones to do so. Together.”

 

\--

Look in the mirror. Yes, this is a classic. I’m sure you’ve heard this one, no? Ask yourself all the arbitrary questions first, the ones that have been pounded into your ears with the force of a thousand mighty men since early life: Who is that in the reflection? Is that person really there - are they  you ? What do you see? These questions, daintily flowered up in a shawl of what should be some sort of mysterious resolve, are painfully simple. A bit lackluster, even, if not bordering on completely monotonous.  What a waste of time, don’t you think? Of course you do.

 

We can go ahead and skip that part. It’s unnecessary.

 

Now, instead of asking yourself all that dumb stuff, just take a look. Doesn’t have to be yourself, y’know. There are many things behind you that you cannot care to snatch glance at in normal circumstances. A good mirror - or, in any case, some sort of reflective surface - will show you what is needed to be known. ‘What do you need to know?’, you may ask. Don’t be stupid, friend. I said no asking of dumb stuff, and I’m positive a fellow like you can decide for him or herself what that information is.

 

So, if you have done what I’ve asked you to do without any problems, then I’m sure you’re not suffering the way a certain gentleman will be in a moment. Or has. Or even is in the process of. Time is funny for someone without a point of relevance, as all authors are doomed to be. 

 

I assure you, however, that I am not in this story, but simply a hand guiding you through the texts of this tale. Just remember not to stare in the mirror for too long. It takes up unnecessary time.

 

\--

 

“You know, they say the crazy are those who dare to dream of things greater than themselves,”  taunted the woman, the corners of her eyes creasing from her large display of pearly whites. Her head, laden with smooth waves of silky bronze, tilted to one side as though she were engaged in some sort of scandalous gossip. “A fine lad like you could definitely be a mad-man in disguise, waiting until the moment is ripe to take the world ablaze with your keen intuition... if not somewhat questionable mental health.”

 

The gentleman held back the urge to scoff. These people and their obsession with what’s “greater” than them! There are things to do, minutes to use, days to trod on through. An upper classman such as himself has not the time to dawdle in such frivolous fantasies. He took another thoughtful sip of his tea, gently pressing his top lip into the herbal concoction before reclining his forearm downwards once more. A soft  clink tickled against the drums if his ears. “Miss Anderson, I simply do not have the time for this. I had requested your insight, but it appears you are content with babbling on about nonsense.”

 

“My apologies, but I am a bit of a romantic!” was her gleeful reply. The air was filled with the light dance of her laughter, weightless and flouncing around in ribbons that pranced about the duo in careless loops and knots. They escalated into an enchanting crescendo before wilting to the floor on a deliberately sour note, crystal irises encasing pinpricks of black ink. Her smile continued to quirk upwards, but a frigidness pooled in her gaze towards the young gentleman. “But, Tony, I must caution that you keep track of this problem of yours. I imagine it is simply a trick of the eye, but take care to pay attention, regardless.”

 

The gentleman, who just so happens to be Tony, nodded in agreement. The tip of his brow compressed in a subtle twitch, only to vanish in an instant, a mere single frame among the masses that merge into perception. “Yes, that would be wise to do.” Seemingly content with his response, fits of giggles warmed her abnormally static expression once more, animating the smells of fresh pastries and lemon brew that wavered in and out of the air around them.

 

The involuntary facial gesture went unnoticed by his companion, of course. 

 

Even in the solace of her cheerful disposition, the gentleman couldn’t help but notice the left corner of her mouth turn slightly downward as she babbled her reassurance. This small detail, this waiver of expression, so miniscule in importance, kept the dapper fellow from divulging in his companion's claims of genius and widespread reverence. It was almost as though she took this a bit more seriously than she intended to let on, though he couldn’t understand why or-  well, he didn’t really have the time to dwell upon that, anyways!

 

A gentle thrum against Tony’s wrist indicated it was time to leave.

\--

 

If you begin your journey from the table framed by walls of bamboo, you will see three aisles that spiral outward in a web of hushed waiters and idle chit-chat. Take the one furthest to the left and you will be led directly to the exit: two panels of a rosy oak in the most unobtrusive arrangement fathomable to the naked eye. The double doors could vanish were one to examine them from certain angles, so remembering where you entered from would be wise during your first visit. The gentleman, however, was familiar with the building’s structural arrangement the same way he was familiar with the back of his own hand, so his brisk stride piloted ceaselessly towards the gateway to what people enjoyed calling the “real world.”

 

Indeed, the city outside of the quaint restaurant was much to that of an alien planet in comparison.

 

The flurry of a rampant civilization clobbered Tony full-force upon impact, soft murmurs of patrons shifting ungainly into sputtering car engines. The gentle wafts of baking bread were replaced by gasoline’s stench, with its accompanying warmth being sucked from his body every time a drop of rain clambered down his scalp. Only, this plunge into sensation was ample enough reminder that the voices weren’t real, that quirk of her mouth was only imagination, no, that woman was not onto you, not about to report you to....

 

Wait, what voices? None were alluded to, not even one mention.  Well, there you go, Tony,  he grumbled internally.  Going about and dreaming up rubbish that never happened? What a waste. There’s a time and a place for mucking around, friend. He let out a vehement huff of frustration, raising his gaze heavenward to the glistening faces of forebodingly grey buildings with their equally foreboding grey windows - few were alight, peculiar as it may be. All this glance accomplished was a disgruntled yelp as rain pummeled his face, droplets snaking down a smooth plain of olive forehead before disappearing into obsidian brows.  Smooth moves, sherlock. He slugged a fist at no one in particular while his other hand made a feeble attempt to wipe away any water that had accumulated in the creases of his eyes. Tony, a man known for the grace in his movement, had been left flailing like a buffoon for a solid three seconds.

 

Words I would rather not reiterate were muttered underneath the gentleman's breath as he made a somewhat less-brisk stride down the sidewalk, swerving to and fro to avoid the masses of individuals that plagued the streets. Were the gentleman to face the direction he came from once more, he would get a rain-mugged view of The Olive Patch, a restaurant known for its formidable selection of teas and baked goods; it just so happened to be the place he found himself to be on his lower-spirited days. The reflective walls of the building’s exterior seemed oddly out of place among the rows of indistinguishable concrete slabs towering high above the horizon, something this part of town was notable for. Well, it might as well have been the  only thing this part of town was notable for, as every shop lining the street seemed to be a branch of some large corporation, another pitiful excuse for merchandise or recreation. A snapshot of the area could be the mirror-image of any other American city, and this was something the gentleman had kept in mind the minute he touched down a few miles north from across the pond those many years ago.

 

Forgotten and out of sight, The Olive Patch faded into the haze of neon open signs and charcoal-black mazes of roads. Streets came alive with bi-colored headlights as they zipped furiously past the young gentleman, almost as though existing somewhere far away from him rather than a few yards to his left. As if to prove the point of his exemplary luck, the persistent rain eventually soaked through his blazer and made the cotton button-up underneath it cling to his skin in obnoxious similarity to wet kleenex. Though, in all honesty, he could care less. Home was barely ten paces away.

 

Up ahead could only be visually described as a seizure of human life, of which Tony didn’t favor, and the mighty decibels of a city come alive overpowered any sense of sound - this, Tony favored even less. His focus instead drifted towards the ground ahead of him, his dapper - albeit drenched - reflection lost in a river of artificial light and faces he did not recognize. Alas, he had finally brought a soaked heel down on the first step to complex’s front door, so any attention paid to pooling images of strange people and their strange glowing devices had been wrought from him. 

 

The tip of his nose, flushed from exposure to nature’s stewing atmospheric pressure, was a hair’s breadth from the panel of cool glass that divided earth and man’s residency. Every breath expanded and contracted both a visible spot of fog and a less-than-visible sense of anticipation, his own personal metaphor for the state of his mind.

 

With a brisk shake of his unkempt, soggy mop of hair, its stylishly blond tips muddled hazel, Tony gave a firm tug on the steel handle. The door swung easily open as though it were made of cheap plastic; it would be no surprise were it really a mass of that artificial substitute. The shriek of unoiled door hinges feebly attempting to close the passage inward, an eternity spent shuffling towards the nearest elevator, and a sickening ocean of silence greeted his venture indoors.

 

Mrrrrek dddggggggg-DING! resounded from within the walls, leaving a rather bewildered gentleman to pounce five feet upward. Two metallic panels made a show of an uneven retraction, revealing a small, concealed space that could fit a small flurry of full-grown adults - or a somewhat less-small flurry of rowdy children, depending on the direction of one’s train of thought - inside of it. Ah, elevators. Grateful that his journey was coming to a close, Tony slid his feet in, jabbing the knuckle of his thumb into the curly five that marked his floor, and felt his head loll to the left slightly as he began his ascent. Gasoline continued to linger in the air, pooling in oblong mounds of vapor that had ceased to turn the young man’s nose up in disgust many years ago.

 

Seconds pass. Anxious seconds, toes rapping against metal grate, the barest hint of steam radiating from his body as the temperature seemed to creep upwards with the elevator - or was that just fantasy?

 

Lousy, god-damn  stupid anxiety. A fine upperclassman such as himself has not the time for such a thing! Encased in a coffin-like death box elevated hazardous heights above what would be a painful splatter against concrete? Fun! The peak of luxury! A normal, everyday occurrence, so it must be safe!

 

Sometimes, slamming one’s fist against surfaces within close proximity is just  so satisfying.

 

As he glowered at the palms of his hands, doing anything to avert his eyes from the strips of wallpaper groping at stale air, Tony felt a small pinprick on the back of his neck. Eyebrow notched upward ever so slightly, the gentleman swept an arm in a smooth arc towards the supposed point of contact and slid one finger just below the collar’s fabric, across the top of his spine in the area where it supported his skull. Retracting his gloved index finger, he gazed at its tip with the slightest hint of curiosity.

 

A splotch of electric blue - paint? ink? -  something splattered onto the floor from the stained fabric on his hand.

 

As though the water that slid lazy over his shoulders to the floor were to weigh that of uranium, he keeled forward violently, a convulsion that seemed the icing on the cake for his lackluster evening. Fortunately, the panels of the car reeled open to reveal a stunted hallway, brightly lit with commercial LEDs that gave the heated passage an eerily cold atmosphere.

 

Ever..... dy run... me....

 

It was quiet at first, ever so slightly above a whisper, and yet so smothered with breath that no voice came out.

 

Tony had dismissed it as the lift banging around, as per usual. But, when he had managed to sort-of walk, mostly limp, halfway down the hall to his apartment door, the words tickled the inside of his brain once more. As if his collarbone were tugged by a string, the rest of his body tumbled forward onto the greyish fuzz of carpet, nose crumpled into the ground with a satisfying  kat-tyhunk!

 

Disheveled, groggy, and absurdly damp from what should’ve been a five minute walk down the road, the gentleman dug both elbows into the carpet, shifting his weight from his lower abdomen to somewhat knobby knees. As the support was compromised from a tremor that seemed to erupt from his inner being, his gloved hands brushed harshly against the nearby wall so as to fumble into the best upright position he could muster.

 

Everybody runs o... t..me

 

“Home,” he stammered clumsily with uncompliant lips, inching himself forward at a slug’s pace whilst grappling against the wall for any semblance of support. “Need t’g-get home...”

 

Eve......To....y. Everyb....

 

Five feet. One foot. Six inches. A doorknob protruded from a wooden mass carved into the side of the room, placated within arm’s reach....

 

You can’t es....pe m....

 

Yes, this rug smells good, let’s rest for a while- no, the door, the door!

  
  


“HrrruuuuAAAAAAAHHHHHHH!” With a mighty cry of battle, the gentleman shot one of his two dextrous limbs at the brass handle with only the power pure adrenaline can provide. His wrist then wrenched itself furiously to the side, plummeting to the floor after the deed was done, and with insurmountable grace the meager barricade slid easily open. His torso beelined through the then empty arch, legs flailing behind in futile attempt to keep his body suspended against gravity; Alas, a sickening crunch resounded from inside of his being as the bridge of his nose once more buried itself into the ground, but no, he’s come too far to give up now,  so go to the bathroom mirror to asses the damage , he demanded of himself internally,  see if you can convince yourself this is just a bloody dream .

 

Despite his tumble, he wasted no time in jabbing his forearms into the floor of the apartment to propel his useless mass of person onward to the restroom, crudely resembling the army crawl of a small child rather than that of a seasoned soldier. To his astonishment, carpet fibres ended abruptly at the border of tile a full three point five two seconds sooner than he expected, and the perplexing preciseness of this observation suddenly seemed to rank high in importance.

 

Joints crackled as they righted every individual bone in order to stand, ribs shuddering from his haggled succession of exhales.  Focus , Tony commanded inwardly, feeling each tendon scrape against bodily tissue that it had so intimately caressed in previous moments. Fabric pulled taught, creases vanishing into the very concept of void, moisture that had been previously squashed against his pores to finally escaped the breadth of his skin.

 

Like a partner in a waltz, Tony’s reflection greeted his eyes with a lover’s gentle graze as the image leapt about every inch of his cornea. His breath fell short. No bastardly electric blue dared to intrude upon his visage. Perhaps this experience had been hallucinatory?

 

His reflection smiled. Tony, however, felt no change in his expression, only to notice the azure pigment advancing from behind his neck.

 

Red. Shocking red, right across the bridge of his nose. The image brought a finger to his lips.

 

Of course, he screamed.


End file.
